“But you said this guy’s methodical and intelligent. Couldn’t our killer just have done a lot of research? If he’s as organized and painstaking as you say he is, maybe he just knew exactly what he was doing from the get-go?”
“That’s the part I still haven’t sorted out,” replied Verraday. “I don’t care if you’re Stephen Hawking or Usain Bolt. There’s a learning curve to everything. Nobody’s this flawless right out of the gate. Alana Carmichael was not his first victim.”
“So why are we only finding out about him now?”
“He may have lived somewhere else and moved to the Seattle area recently. Or he may have lived in Seattle all his life and is now just getting so confident that he doesn’t care about the bodies being found.”
“You’re saying there are more bodies out there.”
“I’d say the chances against it are almost nil. And unless we catch him, there will be more.”
CHAPTER 11
Verraday was in the lecture hall preparing for his afternoon class in criminal psychology and behavior when he heard his cell phone buzzing in his briefcase. For a moment, he considered ignoring it. But he rarely received calls on his cell during the day and guessed it was Maclean. Students were still trickling in, and the computer he used for his PowerPoint presentation hadn’t quite finished booting up. So he reached in to retrieve it and answer the call.
The soft leather briefcase had been a birthday present from his sister Penny and had a cleverly designed array of internal pockets to keep items separated—perfect for a highly organized person like Penny. Verraday’s problem was that he did not share his older sibling’s predisposition. He’d forgotten which pocket he’d placed the phone in, and its vibrations were spread out evenly, seeming to come from every part of the case’s dark interior at the same time. Verraday fumbled around blindly in pouch after pouch and found nothing. He reached down into one large pocket and, too late, detected the edge of the burlesque house flyer. He’d forgotten to take it out of his briefcase the previous night, and a corner of the sharp, crisply guillotined stock slid in under his index fingernail and gave him a nasty paper cut.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed, managing to keep it down to a stage whisper.
On the fifth ring, he located the cell and finally answered. He could hear the excitement in Maclean’s voice as soon as she began speaking.
“We’ve got a lead. I found a PayPal transfer to Rachel’s bank account, which showed that it came from some place called The Victorian Closet. I Googled it. It’s a store downtown. I checked the phone number, and it matches one of the numbers in Alana Carmichael’s cell records. I got her bank statements and it turns out there’s a payment to her there too. There’s a solid connection to both victims.”
Verraday turned his back to his students so they couldn’t see or hear him.
“Good work, Detective.”
“I’m heading down there now. Want to come scope the place out with me?”
“Love to, but I’m just about to teach a class. I’ll be done in two hours. I can join you then if you can hang on.”
“Sorry, can’t wait that long. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks.”
Verraday ended the call and shut off the ringer. The last of the stragglers were taking their seats.
“All right. Since everybody seems to be ready now, let’s begin. Today we’ll be talking about biological theories of criminal behavior.”
A hand went up. It was a student named Koller. Verraday remembered Koller’s name only because the kid was so annoying, frequently interrupting Verraday’s lectures with inane points and irrelevant questions. Worse, he was in both classes that Verraday taught, so Verraday had to see him four times a week.
Verraday ignored him for a moment, then gave in to Koller’s persistent eye contact and raised hand.
“Yes, what is it?” he asked, betraying his slight annoyance.
Koller pointed toward Verraday’s hand. “You’re bleeding, dude.”
Verraday looked down. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more. To see drops of blood on the lectern or to have a student call him “dude.” Koller was irritating even when he was trying to help, thought Verraday.
“Thank you, Mr. Koller,” he replied.
He felt inside his blazer for a tissue and realized he didn’t have one.
“Um, anybody got a clean tissue or a wipe that I can have?”
The frumpy girl in the baggy jeans and big sweater made her way toward him. Janzen or Jensen or Johansen. He still couldn’t remember. She took a small travel-size package of sanitizing wipes from her purse.
“There you go, Professor,” she said timidly, hunching her shoulders as she handed it to him.
“Thank you,” he replied as he took one from the package. He pressed the alcohol wipe against the cut. It stung but absorbed the blood on his fingertip and staunched the flow.
“And there’s a Band-Aid too if you need it,” she added, handing him one from her purse.
“You come fully equipped,” he said.
She smiled shyly but said nothing.
“Thanks,” he replied.